


The Adventure Of The King Stone (The Matter Of The Jew Pedlar)

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, London, M/M, Murder, References to Shakespeare, Sherlock Being Annoying, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Warwickshire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: It's all go for Sherlock as he gets told by his brother Sherrinford and the latter's lover Kean exactly what is wrong with him that made his new room-mate move out so soon (it's a long list!), then travels to Warwickshire to both solve a headwear-related murder and to 'shake' things right with John.





	The Adventure Of The King Stone (The Matter Of The Jew Pedlar)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> (Also referenced in the original canon as one of the two cases in which Holmes assisted Inspector Alexander Macdonald').

_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Living together with another human being is not always easy, and I was fortunate that Kean and I were so compatible. And I was more than a little surprised that Doctor Watson had born with my youngest brother's idiosyncrasies for some six months without resorting to murder, or at least improper use of medical equipment. I had however taken the precaution of slipping him a card for the family's second London property, and was not surprised when I heard that he had indeed decamped there that February after my brother had been a little too.... himself. Fortunately Sherlock then came round to my and Kean's own house and asked just what was it about him that had made Watson leave.

It took the two of us half an hour to draw up the full list. And from what happened soon afterwards he actually seemed to learn from it, which must rank alongside that loaves and fishes thing amongst _Great Miracles Of History_!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

I had had a very bad January. The winter that year had been terrible even by London standards, and I had been at the surgery all hours as well as travelling to all points of the city for some patients many of whom needed a bloody good slap for making me waste my time with them. I was intensely grateful to my landlady Mrs. Hudson, who took to making meals that could easily be heated up for me when, as so often, I arrived home late. Indeed, I took to treating her fellow landlady friends for free in gratitude.

Gratitude was _not_ something that I felt towards my room-mate, at this difficult time. I knew that Sherlock's interest in crime meant that he would have irregular hours, but his habit of coming in loud and late when I desperately needed every minute I could get in the arms of Morpheus – well, no man does well when deprived of sleep, and I rapidly found myself losing patience with him. Finally, when he had come in and woken me at four in the morning one time in early February, I snapped and spent an angry five minutes yelling at him before grabbing my things and storming out. I was fortunate that his far-sighted eldest brother Sherrinford (yes, the co-owner of all those molly-houses) had very obviously foreseen that such an event might come to pass and had provided me with a card to spend time at one of his London houses for when his youngest brother proved too much for me.

It was galling in that I did quite like Holmes, if only he would try to be less.... well, less _him!_ He could be considerate when the mood took him – his taking me round Cumberland during our case there had shown that – but at times he became so focussed on his investigations that nothing else mattered to him. I did not of course expect him to change – as a doctor I had seen many illnesses exacerbated by marriages in which one party was clearly trying to 'improve' the other – but for once he surprised me. I received a long letter of apology from him in which he promised to try to behave better in future (I only later learnt that he had, in a rare moment of foolishness, asked his brother and his brother's lover what there was about him that had annoyed me so, and they had spent a considerably long time telling him). I decided that I was too old to sulk and went back to Baker Street.

I will not say that our relationship was easy in the following weeks, although to be fair I did note that he was definitely making an effort to be more considerate. Mercifully the ferocity of winter and the demands it made on me at the surgery had slackened somewhat, so my hours returned to what was more normal. Nevertheless I still felt a little riled, and we spent very little time together.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The man sat in the fireside chair at Baker Street was, by any appearance, a mess. I had thought at first that some Jew pedlar had managed to charm his way past Mrs. Hudson - which when I look back at it was about as likely as Hell freezing over! - but physical untidiness apart this man just looked... a mess. Which just went to show that my observational skills were pretty much on a par with my own detective abilities. 

Par being the golfing term for zero.

“What service does one of the most successful pawnbrokers in Old London Town require of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” my friend asked politely. 

“I see that you know of me, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said, sounding a little surprised. “How, may I ask? I do not exactly put myself out in society.”

I was not going to think the obvious thought that his appearance told even me that. 

“Mr. Goldberg”, Holmes smiled, “it is my business to know everyone who makes this city of ours function. In my line of work it pays to avoid surprises, as unpleasant ones can sometimes be fatal.”

“Indeed”, our visitor said. “I will be brief, because time is money. Although I am sure that your own intelligence networks match or possibly even exceed my own, you may not know that there is a connection between us. My niece Ruth is married to Constable Fraser Macdonald, who is nephew to your friend Inspector Alexander Macdonald, a man of, ahem, _many_ talents. Our mutual nephew is a constable in the Warwickshire Constabulary, based in the village of Long Compton hard by the Oxfordshire border, and he recently encountered a case which had one very peculiar element to it. Indeed, had he not been of the Scots culture, he might well not have noticed.”

I remembered that in our last case Holmes had mentioned that the inspector might have had cause to fear for a nephew who had recently joined the police service. It seemed a long time ago, given all that had happened recently.

“Pray continue”, Holmes said.

“I know that the death in question did not reach the London papers”, our guest said, “although there were some suspicious circumstances. It happened last week, the victim being a local landowner Lord Sewell. He owned a small property at the southern end of the village, at the bottom of a steep hill. I went there myself on one occasion to see my niece, so I know the area.”

“My nephew is, I should say, very unlike his uncle. Young Fraser is what they call a 'beanpole', although I believe he has the ability to match or even exceed his uncle's achievements. I think that it would be best if he himself were to give you the precise details of the case, but I will tell you why he thought it so strange as I know that it is sometimes the _outré_ elements in a case that appeal. It concerned two woollen scarves.”

I looked at our guest in surprise. Of all the things that I might have been expecting, that had not been amongst them.

“Scarves”, Holmes said calmly. “Most interesting.” 

“Petronella, Lord Sewell's housekeeper and a frankly terrifying lady told Fraser that, two weeks prior to his demise, her master had ordered a new scarf from a high-end shop in London”, our guest continued. “A hand-made one in his ancestral clan colours; coincidentally he was a Macdonald, albeit through his late mother. However, when it arrived he was most upset because it was the wrong plaid.”

“How did they manage that?” I asked.

“Most probably a misunderstanding”, Holmes said. “The Macdonalds are a large clan and have several groups of peoples scattered across the Highlands, each with their own distinctive tartan. Plus there is a general clan dress and a dress tartan as well.”

_(Although it did not come up in this case, I would later find out that my friend too had a connection to this great clan)._

“I see that you are well-versed in matters Caledonian”, our guest smiled. “Lord Sewell was most annoyed, and refused to send the scarf back until the company dispatched him the correct one in its stead. The latter arrived on the very day of his death. But when my nephew was shown the body, he was wearing the old scarf that he had hated so much.”

“Could he have put it on in error?” I wondered.

“Utterly impossible!” Holmes snorted. “A clansman wearing the wrong tartan would be like an Englishman waving a French flag during the Jubilee!”

I felt suitably chastened, and I could see from the expression on Holmes' face that he belatedly realized that he may have been a little too virulent in his reaction. Our guest looked curiously between us.

“The housekeeper did say that he kept them in the one drawer”, he said. “I wondered that myself, doctor – but Fraser told me that the original one was green with thin red bands, whilst the replacement was blue blocks of different shades. Very different I would have said, and as a MacDonald himself he would surely know. Would you be prepared to consider the matter?”

“I would be delighted”, Holmes said.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“It all sounds very little to go on”, I said. “A man wears the wrong scarf, and dies. Men have been killed for less I suppose, but this seems bizarre.”

“Mr. Goldberg is, despite the appearance you so nearly commented upon, one of the richest men in the City”, Holmes said dryly. “If he can sense that something is wrong in far Warwickshire, then something is very, very wrong. I must go out concerning the case, but I shall be back for dinner.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes did not tell me where he had been the day before, but did ask me to accompany him in a visit to Inspector Macdonald the following day. I winced when I noted how carefully the huge policeman sat down in his chair, having an uncomfortable and probably correct guess as to the reason why.

“If it was murder”, he said flatly, “then someone was damn clever. Fraser is a bright lad. If he thinks something's wrong, he's probably right.”

“We shall go there tomorrow”, Holmes said. “The doctor has a few days off for once, not having killed too many patients of late.”

I scowled at him. The inspector looked perilously close to something vaguely resembling a faint smile.

“You might want to take the train to Stratford”, he said, “and ask Fraser to collect you from there.

I frowned. I had glanced only quickly at a map of the area, but I was fairly sure that Shakespeare's birthplace was the best part of twenty miles north of the village where the man had been killed, and that there was a railway line running nearby to the south and west of the village. And I was sure that the Great Western Railway had a station in Moreton-in-the-Marsh, which I knew was close by the place. 

“We shall take your advice”, Holmes said gravely.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

That Friday Holmes and I set off early to Paddington Station, having arranged that Constable Macdonald would collect us from Stratford when we got there around lunch-time. I privately hoped that my friend would solve this case quickly and that I might then persuade him to go back to Shakespeare's birthplace, which was a town that I had long wanted to visit. I feared however that I would not get the chance; Holmes would most likely travel back to London from Chipping Norton, which I had confirmed was but a few miles south of our destination. We really should have gone there to start with.

Constable Macdonald, who must have been at least six foot six out of his boots, provided one reason as to why we had gone on such a roundabout route to his village as he drove us south through some pleasant Warwickshire countryside.

“I dare say that you in particular Mr. Holmes appreciates just how parochial some constabularies are”, he said.

I was increasingly learning just how true that old saw was. Holmes had had a minor case at the end of the previous year, one that had straddled the border between the City of London and Metropolitan Constabularies, and getting the two to co-operate had been a Herculean task. Some policemen (and the upper ranks were even worse!) seemed to find it difficult to remember that they were all supposed to be on the same side.

“The victim died near the King Stone, south of the village”, our host continued. “It is part of a set of ancient stones; there is a ring and a sort of tomb thing nearby. The problem is, sir, it is right on the border with Oxfordshire so the boys in Norton think that it should be their case.”

So that had been why we had not gone through Chipping Norton, I mused. Despite the alleged backwardness of some country areas, one surety was that the arrival of a consulting detective to such an area would be around the place in hours, and doubtless the local constabulary would not be happy. Honestly, some people!

“Please tell us about the victim”, Holmes said.

“Rædwald, Lord Sewell”, the constable said. “Good fellow, for a toff. In his seventies and in decent enough health; he walked out most days except when the weather was too bad. The climb to the stones is a steep one; I was a bit surprised he attempted it given that there were easier walks in the area and there was mist on the hill, but he was that kind of gentleman.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

“Doctor Charing said heart attack”, the constable said, sounding somewhat dubious. “I am not so sure, especially given the fact he was wearing that damn scarf. He was really proud of his Scots heritage and there was no way he would have been seen dead in that thing!”

“Evidently he was seen dead in it”, Holmes said dryly. “So, _cui bono?_ Who stood to gain by the man's death?”

“Title and estate goes to his younger brother, Sigeberht”, the constable said. “He's just turned fifty; their mother had eleven children of whom they were the eldest and second youngest, but of the intervening ones only two were sons and both died young. The title is one of those ancient ones that can only pass through the male line. I think the daughters who survived all got small sums. None of them are still in the area; closest one is somewhere up in Shropshire I think.”

“One presumes that some important ancestor had connections to East Anglia from their naming choices”, Holmes observed. “Who is next in line after Mr. Sigeberht?”

“He has three sons of his own”, the constable said. “Regular names but not regular folks. I would put my finger on the eldest, Charles. Nasty piece of work; I am sure that his dear old dad would like to disinherit him, but it is a male-line thing so he cannot. The second son John is married to Doctor Charing's daughter Nancy with a son of his own, and the third Peter is married to a Shipston girl and lives up there, no children as yet.”

I remembered that Shipston-on-Stour had been a rather pleasant little town that we had passed through earlier, about six miles north of the village. Not that far, I thought.

“Does Mr. Charles have children?” I asked.

“He is engaged to a girl from Cherington, a village about five miles north of here”, the constable said. “What do you think, sirs?”

“It all seems fairly obvious”, Holmes said, to my astonishment. “The main problem will be proving it, but that is what I am here for.”

We both stared at him.

“Obvious, sir?” the constable asked.

“Of course”, Holmes said. “I think that I would like to see where the murder took place first, please.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Is there some sort of legend surrounding these stones?” I asked, as we looked at a single standing stone that I felt was more than a little precarious. On the other side of the road was a large stone ring but the 'King Stone' dominated the hillside, looking over the descent back down to the village far below.

Far, far below. I pointedly looked the other way.

“Folks say that sometime after the Romans, a warlord, his soldiers and some hired mercenaries came this way”, the constable said. “The warlord went through the village and met a witch, who told him that if he could but look down upon the village from this hill, he would become a king of England. He sent his soldiers and mercenaries up here first, and when nothing happened came up after them – but before he could look down she changed them all to stone.”

“Bit tough on his men”, I observed, refraining from pointing out that there had been no 'England' at that time.

“They had been plotting against him, apparently”, the constable said. “She went and changed herself into a tree; Lord alone knows why. The King used to be bigger, but we have way too many idiots come see him who want to nab a 'royal' souvenir.”

Holmes was looking around thoughtfully.

“I think that we need to see Doctor Charing”, he said after a while. “I have a feeling that he may be able to take us an important step forward in this matter.”

At least we would be off this blasted hill, I thought. We headed back to the cart.

“Were there any witnesses to the victim's final walk?” Holmes asked, as we drove off. The constable thought about that.

“No-one that came forward”, he said. “Though you might ask Peggy Woolworth. She's the nosiest cat in the whole village!”

“We should detour and see her, then”, Holmes said, to the surprise of both of us. “I recall you said that the good doctor lives in Whichford which I know is to the north of here, so it would be on our way.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Unfortunately Miss Peggy Woolworth was one of those large ladies who, with one glance at Holmes, were clearly thinking 'marriage'. Either she was batting her eyes at my friend or she had more than one rogue eyelash. 

“Yes, I saw poor Red heading up towards the Stones”, she said. “Silly man, I thought. Out on a day like that! He must have been freezing.” 

“How could you see him from this distance?” I asked suspiciously. The track up the hill came out of the village a good hundred yards from her cottage.

“Bird-watching is a hobby of mine, doctor”, she beamed. “I have a most excellent set of binoculars.”

Of course she did, I thought. _For the birds._

Look, even the constable was smiling so I was allowed to be catty.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Doctor Stephen Charing was an affable grey-haired fellow in his fifties and he welcomed us to his Whichford home. He seemed surprised at our involvement in the death of Lord Sewell but answered our questions readily enough.

“Mr. Sigeberht raised the alarm when his brother did not come home from his walk”, he said. “Charles was as per usual quite dismissive, saying that his uncle probably just fancied a longer walk than usual. Sadly he was proven wrong; we found the body quite quickly.”

“I would have liked to have had my friend look at the body”, Holmes said ruefully. “But I suppose that he has been buried by this time.”

“Actually no”, the doctor said. “Peter Sewell was away up in Scotland when it happened – his wife's sister had been ill - and he only returned home today. The funeral is set for tomorrow.”

“Where is the body?” Holmes asked urgently.

“In the police station”, Constable Macdonald answered, much to the surprise of both of us. “What with all the talk surrounding his death, I thought it better to keep him there. Mrs. Ives, who 'does' for these parts, has made him decent.”

“You have examined him?” Holmes asked the doctor. 

“I did a basic examination and found nothing untoward”, he said. 

“What about his clothes?” Holmes pressed. 

“He has been dressed in his best clothes, and the original ones returned to his family”, the doctor answered, looking slightly vexed at the continued questioning. 

Holmes thanked him for his time and we saw ourselves out. Only when we were on our way did Holmes speak.

“Constable”, he said at last, “you know the Sewell household. Who in your opinion is the most reliable member of the serving staff.”

“Jude, sir”, the policeman answered without hesitation. “The late Lord Sewell's valet. Young for his post, but trustworthy.”

“I wish you to ask him to attend us at the station”, Holmes said carefully, “and it would greatly help our cause if he could bring a certain item along with him. And then for you to maybe look the other way whilst Watson here examines the late victim.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I did not even need to tell Holmes when I emerged from my examination of the late Lord Sewell. His smugness would probably have set an alarm off somewhere!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. Harrison Jude was, I thought, everything that an English valet should be. He was in his early thirties, held himself bolt upright and had an air of openness and honesty about him.

(An unfortunate part of my brain wondered idly which page of Mr. Sherrinford Holmes' catalogue he might feature on. I told it to shut up!).

“I would like to start”, Holmes said, “with a somewhat personal question if I may. Did you actually _like_ your employer?”

That clearly surprised the servant. He hesitated for a moment.

“Be assured that nothing you say will be repeated outside these four walls”, I reassured him. Unless Miss Woolworth is outside with a glass to the wall, I added silently.

“His Lordship could be a difficult man at times”, the valet conceded, “but he was a fair man. I had to go to London one time to see my mother who was taken ill unexpectedly, and he not only paid my fare but also gave me paid leave. That was kind of him.”

Very kind, I thought. Few masters would have gone so far. 

“I thank you for bringing the item that I requested”, Holmes said, extracting a pair of what looked like expensive walking-boots from a bag. “These belong to your late master's nephew, Mr. John Sewell?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“I also asked the constable to get you to check one other thing before you came down”, Holmes said. “Did you manage to do it?”

“I did, sir”, the valet said. “It was as you said. The item had been recently washed and Mrs. Ferguson the housekeeper confirmed that she had been asked to attend to it personally, as it was delicate and required hand-washing.”

“Then the case is complete”, Holmes smiled, sitting back. We all looked at him.

“May you be telling us who done it, sir?” the constable asked politely.

“This was a most cleverly planned and well-executed crime”, Holmes said. “I understand, constable, that the body of the victim was found at approximately four in the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would draw your attention first to the weather that day”, Holmes said. “The weather of the past few weeks has been very cold, and that day was no exception. In addition the place the body was found, on an exposed hilltop, was important in the crime. Because informative as your report undoubtedly was constable, it contained an unintentional error. The doctor placed the time of death as between one and two o'clock. We know that Miss Woolworth saw what she saw at around one, which would tend to suggest that Lord Sewell's heart gave way some time after he completed his arduous ascent. However, that was not what actually happened.”

“One thing that I found curious is the statement of Mr. Charles Sewell. We know, because of the evidence of the staff at the house, that he could not have been out on the hill that afternoon. Seemingly he gained by the death, as it moved him one stage closer to succeeding to the title, but then his father might live for some years. And you, constable, told me that Mr. Charles claimed to have knocked on his uncle's study door whilst he was working in there and have heard him call out not to be disturbed. Lord Sewell could not be there _and_ out on the hill at one and the same time, so why would his nephew lie?”

“I would like to put to you a different scenario, one for which, I am happy to say, there is some evidence. Whether or not a court will accept it as proof enough to merit the long drop I am not sure, but I believe that we shall soon see. Lord Sewell was murdered by his brother and his brother's second son, John, sometime around half-past twelve.”

We stared at him in shock. He continued.

“As the doctor has just confirmed, he was stabbed in the neck by an exceptionally fine instrument. His killers then made their first mistake. Thinking to stop the bleeding they used the nearest item to hand, which was his recently arrived replacement clan scarf. I would wager that neither killer has any particular interest in Caledonian history, which was one of the factors that proved their undoing. Mr. Sigeberht then sets out for a walk wearing the old scarf and his brother's coat, which he makes sure takes him along a path where the nosiest ca.... a person who is a keen birdwatcher might happen perchance to watch him pass by.”

Both the constable and I smiled at that.

“Meanwhile Mr. John Sewell is disturbed in the library by his brother, but fortunately the locked door and a decent impression of his now dead uncle keeps the latter at bay. At this point in the proceedings Mr. John had removed his uncle's body to a cart, and once his brother had left he drove that cart to the rendezvous point by the King Stone.”

Holmes turned over the boots.

“We all saw”, he said, “how the area around the stone had been recently laid with new stone chippings. I have made a study of such things; these particular chippings are from south Staffordshire and would not normally be encountered this far south. You will note that two small chipping fragments are wedged into the soles of these fine boots.”

So they were. 

“Because it is such a cold day”, Holmes went on, “there is little danger that the time of death will be easily fixed. Although it was his son-in-law who was involved, I am sure that the doctor himself was innocent. Despite the cold wind he may have been inclined to fix the death as having happened closer to the correct time except that you, constable, had already told him that the man had been seen alive at one o'clock. The doctor therefore placed the time of death as after then.”

“The body of the victim is placed next to the King Stone by Mr. John Sewell. The location is doubly clever as it is not only shielded from the village and the distant road but it is also close to the border with Oxfordshire, and that shire's constabulary might well seek a role in the investigation which would only hamper matters. He and his father then ride quickly to Chipping Norton. In that busy town they are seen in a local tavern at around the time the murder is actually reckoned to have taken place, about an hour after it truly had. They therefore have an alibi for a murder that they have themselves committed.”

We were all silent for a moment.

“May I ask about my question to the housekeeper, sir?” the valet asked at last.

“Of course”, Holmes smiled. “As I said, the 'correct' or second scarf was used to staunch the relatively mild flow of blood from the wound. It was quite possible that had it been noticed it would have been put down to a shaving nick, but they did not wish to take even that chance. I would wager that Lord Sigeberht handed the scarf to the housekeeper for hand-washing, saying something along the lines that he wanted to return it to the shop because of the unhappy memories that it evoked, but it would naturally have to be washed first.”

“That is exactly what he told her, sir”, the valet said, looking at Holmes in awe.

“The only problem”, Holmes said, “will be getting a conviction. We are talking a capital offence here, and twelve good men and true usually only convict on certainties. Well, we shall see.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

See we did. After consulting with Mr. Charles Sewell, Holmes informed the man's father and brother of the case against them and said that he was putting the matter in the hands of the authorities one week from that day. Naturally both men immediately tried to sell as much of the estate as they could, only to find that Holmes had forestalled them and that all their efforts were in vain. They then had the decency to flee the country for parts unknown, and were not missed.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We spent another night at the Red Lion after which I fully expected Holmes to head for Chipping Norton and a train back to his beloved London. But instead Constable Macdonald drove us all the way back to Stratford, which seemed an unnecessary delay. Until he said goodbye and left us, and I noticed my friend looking unusually thoughtful.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I assume too much about you at times”, he said ruefully, holding up his hand when I looked set to deny it. “No, Watson, I really do. I am sorry for my behaviour earlier this year, which my brother and Mr. Hardland rightly said was utterly beneath me. So when I knew we were coming up here and I remembered that you said that you would want to visit the birthplace of our greatest author for a few days, I arranged with the surgery for some extra cover for you. We have a whole extra week here, and can take a Sunday train home....”

He stopped, mainly because in an unmanly expression of gratitude I was hugging the living daylights out of him. What of it; the road behind us was empty, and if anyone in the guest-house in front of us was looking out of the window – even if there was some other nosy old bat 'bird-watching' with her binoculars - well, tough.

“Thank you”, I sniffed. “I... thank you.”

He patted me on the back, and I let him go. My manliness was probably seeing a lawyer about disowning me, but so what. I was in Stratford!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
